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The Pit

F >> Frank Norris >> The Pit




As the party filed in through the wicket, the other young man who
had come with Landry Court managed to place himself next to Laura.
Meeting her eyes, he murmured:

"Ah, you did not wear them after all. My poor little flowers."

But she showed him a single American Beauty, pinned to the shoulder
of her gown beneath her cape.

"Yes, Mr. Corthell," she answered, "one. I tried to select the
prettiest, and I think I succeeded--don't you? It was hard to
choose."

"Since you have worn it, it is the prettiest," he answered.

He was a slightly built man of about twenty-eight or thirty; dark,
wearing a small, pointed beard, and a mustache that he brushed away
from his lips like a Frenchman. By profession he was an artist,
devoting himself more especially to the designing of stained
windows. In this, his talent was indisputable. But he was by no
means dependent upon his profession for a living, his parents--long
since dead--having left him to the enjoyment of a very considerable
fortune. He had a beautiful studio in the Fine Arts Building, where
he held receptions once every two months, or whenever he had a fine
piece of glass to expose. He had travelled, read, studied,
occasionally written, and in matters pertaining to the colouring and
fusing of glass was cited as an authority. He was one of the
directors of the new Art Gallery that had taken the place of the old
Exposition Building on the Lake Front.

Laura had known him for some little time. On the occasion of her two
previous visits to Page he had found means to see her two or three
times each week. Once, even, he had asked her to marry him, but she,
deep in her studies at the time, consumed with vague ambitions to be
a great actress of Shakespearian roles, had told him she could care
for nothing but her art. He had smiled and said that he could wait,
and, strangely enough, their relations had resumed again upon the
former footing. Even after she had gone away they had corresponded
regularly, and he had made and sent her a tiny window--a veritable
jewel--illustrative of a scene from "Twelfth Night."

In the foyer, as the gentlemen were checking their coats, Laura
overheard Jadwin say to Mr. Cressler:

"Well, how about Helmick?"

The other made an impatient movement of his shoulders.

"Ask me, what was the fool thinking of--a corner! Pshaw!"

There were one or two other men about, making their overcoats and
opera hats into neat bundles preparatory to checking them; and
instantly there was a flash of a half-dozen eyes in the direction of
the two men. Evidently the collapse of the Helmick deal was in the
air. All the city seemed interested.

But from behind the heavy curtains that draped the entrance to the
theatre proper, came a muffled burst of music, followed by a long
salvo of applause. Laura's cheeks flamed with impatience, she
hurried after Mrs. Cressler; Corthell drew the curtains for her to
pass, and she entered.

Inside it was dark, and a prolonged puff of hot air, thick with the
mingled odours of flowers, perfume, upholstery, and gas, enveloped
her upon the instant. It was the unmistakable, unforgettable,
entrancing aroma of the theatre, that she had known only too seldom,
but that in a second set her heart galloping.

Every available space seemed to be occupied. Men, even women, were
standing up, compacted into a suffocating pressure, and for the
moment everybody was applauding vigorously. On all sides Laura
heard:

"Bravo!"

"Good, good!"

"Very well done!"

"Encore! Encore!"

Between the peoples' heads and below the low dip of the overhanging
balcony--a brilliant glare in the surrounding darkness--she caught
a glimpse of the stage. It was set for a garden; at the back and in
the distance a chateau; on the left a bower, and on the right a
pavilion. Before the footlights, a famous contralto, dressed as a
boy, was bowing to the audience, her arms full of flowers.

"Too bad," whispered Corthell to Laura, as they followed the others
down the side-aisle to the box. "Too bad, this is the second act
already; you've missed the whole first act--and this song. She'll
sing it over again, though, just for you, if I have to lead the
applause myself. I particularly wanted you to hear that."

Once in the box, the party found itself a little crowded, and Jadwin
and Cressler were obliged to stand, in order to see the stage.
Although they all spoke in whispers, their arrival was the signal
for certain murmurs of "Sh! Sh!" Mrs. Cressler made Laura occupy the
front seat. Jadwin took her cloak from her, and she settled herself
in her chair and looked about her. She could see but little of the
house or audience. All the lights were lowered; only through the
gloom the swaying of a multitude of fans, pale coloured, like
night-moths balancing in the twilight, defined itself.

But soon she turned towards the stage. The applause died away, and
the contralto once more sang the aria. The melody was simple, the
tempo easily followed; it was not a very high order of music. But to
Laura it was nothing short of a revelation.

She sat spell-bound, her hands clasped tight, her every faculty of
attention at its highest pitch. It was wonderful, such music as
that; wonderful, such a voice; wonderful, such orchestration;
wonderful, such exaltation inspired by mere beauty of sound. Never,
never was this night to be forgotten, this her first night of Grand
Opera. All this excitement, this world of perfume, of flowers, of
exquisite costumes, of beautiful women, of fine, brave men. She
looked back with immense pity to the narrow little life of her
native town she had just left forever, the restricted horizon, the
petty round of petty duties, the rare and barren pleasures--the
library, the festival, the few concerts, the trivial plays. How easy
it was to be good and noble when music such as this had become a
part of one's life; how desirable was wealth when it could make
possible such exquisite happiness as hers of the moment. Nobility,
purity, courage, sacrifice seemed much more worth while now than a
few moments ago. All things not positively unworthy became heroic,
all things and all men. Landry Court was a young chevalier, pure as
Galahad. Corthell was a beautiful artist-priest of the early
Renaissance. Even Jadwin was a merchant prince, a great financial
captain. And she herself--ah, she did not know; she dreamed of
another Laura, a better, gentler, more beautiful Laura, whom
everybody, everybody loved dearly and tenderly, and who loved
everybody, and who should die beautifully, gently, in some garden
far away--die because of a great love--beautifully, gently in the
midst of flowers, die of a broken heart, and all the world should be
sorry for her, and would weep over her when they found her dead and
beautiful in her garden, amid the flowers and the birds, in some
far-off place, where it was always early morning and where there was
soft music. And she was so sorry for herself, and so hurt with the
sheer strength of her longing to be good and true, and noble and
womanly, that as she sat in the front of the Cresslers' box on that
marvellous evening, the tears ran down her cheeks again and again,
and dropped upon her tight-shut, white-gloved fingers.

But the contralto had disappeared, and in her place the tenor held
the stage--a stout, short young man in red plush doublet and grey
silk tights. His chin advanced, an arm extended, one hand pressed to
his breast, he apostrophised the pavilion, that now and then swayed
a little in the draught from the wings.

The aria was received with furor; thrice he was obliged to repeat
it. Even Corthell, who was critical to extremes, approved, nodding
his head. Laura and Page clapped their hands till the very last. But
Landry Court, to create an impression, assumed a certain
disaffection.

"He's not in voice to-night. Too bad. You should have heard him
Friday in 'Aida.'"

The opera continued. The great soprano, the prima donna, appeared
and delivered herself of a song for which she was famous with
astonishing eclat. Then in a little while the stage grew dark, the
orchestration lapsed to a murmur, and the tenor and the soprano
reentered. He clasped her in his arms and sang a half-dozen bars,
then holding her hand, one arm still about her waist, withdrew from
her gradually, till she occupied the front-centre of the stage. He
assumed an attitude of adoration and wonderment, his eyes uplifted
as if entranced, and she, very softly, to the accompaniment of the
sustained, dreamy chords of the orchestra, began her solo.

Laura shut her eyes. Never had she felt so soothed, so cradled and
lulled and languid. Ah, to love like that! To love and be loved.
There was no such love as that to-day. She wished that she could
loose her clasp upon the sordid, material modern life that,
perforce, she must hold to, she knew not why, and drift, drift off
into the past, far away, through rose-coloured mists and diaphanous
veils, or resign herself, reclining in a silver skiff drawn by
swans, to the gentle current of some smooth-flowing river that ran
on forever and forever.

But a discordant element developed. Close by--the lights were so low
she could not tell where--a conversation, kept up in low whispers,
began by degrees to intrude itself upon her attention. Try as she
would, she could not shut it out, and now, as the music died away
fainter and fainter, till voice and orchestra blended together in a
single, barely audible murmur, vibrating with emotion, with romance,
and with sentiment, she heard, in a hoarse, masculine whisper, the
words:

"The shortage is a million bushels at the very least. Two hundred
carloads were to arrive from Milwaukee last night."

She made a little gesture of despair, turning her head for an
instant, searching the gloom about her. But she could see no one not
interested in the stage. Why could not men leave their business
outside, why must the jar of commerce spoil all the harmony of this
moment.

However, all sounds were drowned suddenly in a long burst of
applause. The tenor and soprano bowed and smiled across the
footlights. The soprano vanished, only to reappear on the balcony of
the pavilion, and while she declared that the stars and the
night-bird together sang "He loves thee," the voices close at hand
continued:

"--one hundred and six carloads--"

"--paralysed the bulls--"

"--fifty thousand dollars--"

Then all at once the lights went up. The act was over.

Laura seemed only to come to herself some five minutes later. She
and Corthell were out in the foyer behind the boxes. Everybody was
promenading. The air was filled with the staccato chatter of a
multitude of women. But she herself seemed far away--she and Sheldon
Corthell. His face, dark, romantic, with the silky beard and
eloquent eyes, appeared to be all she cared to see, while his low
voice, that spoke close to her ear, was in a way a mere continuation
of the melody of the duet just finished.

Instinctively she knew what he was about to say, for what he was
trying to prepare her. She felt, too, that he had not expected to
talk thus to her to-night. She knew that he loved her, that
inevitably, sooner or later, they must return to a subject that for
long had been excluded from their conversations, but it was to have
been when they were alone, remote, secluded, not in the midst of a
crowd, brilliant electrics dazzling their eyes, the humming of the
talk of hundreds assaulting their ears. But it seemed as if these
important things came of themselves, independent of time and place,
like birth and death. There was nothing to do but to accept the
situation, and it was without surprise that at last, from out the
murmur of Corthell's talk, she was suddenly conscious of the words:

"So that it is hardly necessary, is it, to tell you once more that I
love you?"

She drew a long breath.

"I know. I know you love me."

They had sat down on a divan, at one end of the promenade; and
Corthell, skilful enough in the little arts of the drawing-room,
made it appear as though they talked of commonplaces; as for Laura,
exalted, all but hypnotised with this marvellous evening, she hardly
cared; she would not even stoop to maintain appearances.

"Yes, yes," she said; "I know you love me."

"And is that all you can say?" he urged. "Does it mean nothing to
you that you are everything to me?"

She was coming a little to herself again. Love was, after all,
sweeter in the actual--even in this crowded foyer, in this
atmosphere of silk and jewels, in this show-place of a great city's
society--than in a mystic garden of some romantic dreamland. She
felt herself a woman again, modern, vital, and no longer a maiden of
a legend of chivalry.

"Nothing to me?" she answered. "I don't know. I should rather have
you love me than--not."

"Let me love you then for always," he went on. "You know what I
mean. We have understood each other from the very first. Plainly,
and very simply, I love you with all my heart. You know now that I
speak the truth, you know that you can trust me. I shall not ask you
to share your life with mine. I ask you for the great happiness"--he
raised his head sharply, suddenly proud--"the great honour of the
opportunity of giving you all that I have of good. God give me
humility, but that is much since I have known you. If I were a
better man because of myself, I would not presume to speak of it,
but if I am in anything less selfish, if I am more loyal, if I am
stronger, or braver, it is only something of you that has become a
part of me, and made me to be born again. So when I offer myself to
you, I am only bringing back to you the gift you gave me for a
little while. I have tried to keep it for you, to keep it bright and
sacred and un-spotted. It is yours again now if you will have it."

There was a long pause; a group of men in opera hats and white
gloves came up the stairway close at hand. The tide of promenaders
set towards the entrances of the theatre. A little electric bell
shrilled a note of warning.

Laura looked up at length, and as their glances met, he saw that
there were tears in her eyes. This declaration of his love for her
was the last touch to the greatest exhilaration of happiness she had
ever known. Ah yes, she was loved, just as that young girl of the
opera had been loved. For this one evening, at least, the beauty of
life was unmarred, and no cruel word of hers should spoil it. The
world was beautiful. All people were good and noble and true.
To-morrow, with the material round of duties and petty
responsibilities and cold, calm reason, was far, far away.

Suddenly she turned to him, surrendering to the impulse, forgetful
of consequences.

"Oh, I am glad, glad," she cried, "glad that you love me!"

But before Corthell could say anything more Landry Court and Page
came up.

"We've been looking for you," said the young girl quietly. Page was
displeased. She took herself and her sister--in fact, the whole
scheme of existence--with extraordinary seriousness. She had no
sense of humour. She was not tolerant; her ideas of propriety and
the amenities were as immutable as the fixed stars. A fine way for
Laura to act, getting off into corners with Sheldon Corthell. It
would take less than that to make talk. If she had no sense of her
obligations to Mrs. Cressler, at least she ought to think of the
looks of things.

"They're beginning again," she said solemnly. "I should think you'd
feel as though you had missed about enough of this opera."

They returned to the box. The rest of the party were reassembling.

"Well, Laura," said Mrs. Cressler, when they had sat down, "do you
like it?"

"I don't want to leave it--ever," she answered. "I could stay here
always."

"I like the young man best," observed Aunt Wess'. "The one who seems
to be the friend of the tall fellow with a cloak. But why does he
seem so sorry? Why don't he marry the young lady? Let's see, I don't
remember his name."

"Beastly voice," declared Landry Court. "He almost broke there once.
Too bad. He's not what he used to be. It seems he's terribly
dissipated--drinks. Yes, sir, like a fish. He had delirium tremens
once behind the scenes in Philadelphia, and stabbed a scene shifter
with his stage dagger. A bad lot, to say the least."

"Now, Landry," protested Mrs. Cressler, "you're making it up as you
go along." And in the laugh that followed Landry himself joined.

"After all," said Corthell, "this music seems to be just the right
medium between the naive melody of the Italian school and the
elaborate complexity of Wagner. I can't help but be carried away
with it at times--in spite of my better judgment."

Jadwin, who had been smoking a cigar in the vestibule during the
entr'acte, rubbed his chin reflectively.

"Well," he said, "it's all very fine. I've no doubt of that, but I
give you my word I would rather hear my old governor take his guitar
and sing 'Father, oh father, come home with me now,' than all the
fiddle-faddle, tweedle-deedle opera business in the whole world."

But the orchestra was returning, the musicians crawling out one by
one from a little door beneath the stage hardly bigger than the
entrance of a rabbit hutch. They settled themselves in front of
their racks, adjusting their coat-tails, fingering their sheet
music. Soon they began to tune up, and a vague bourdon of many
sounds--the subdued snarl of the cornets, the dull mutter of the
bass viols, the liquid gurgling of the flageolets and wood-wind
instruments, now and then pierced by the strident chirps and cries
of the violins, rose into the air dominating the incessant clamour
of conversation that came from all parts of the theatre.

Then suddenly the house lights sank and the footlights rose. From
all over the theatre came energetic whispers of "Sh! Sh!" Three
strokes, as of a great mallet, sepulchral, grave, came from behind
the wings; the leader of the orchestra raised his baton, then
brought it slowly down, and while from all the instruments at once
issued a prolonged minor chord, emphasised by a muffled roll of the
kettle-drum, the curtain rose upon a mediaeval public square. The
soprano was seated languidly upon a bench. Her grande scene occurred
in this act. Her hair was un-bound; she wore a loose robe of cream
white, with flowing sleeves, which left the arms bare to the
shoulder. At the waist it was caught in by a girdle of silk rope.

"This is the great act," whispered Mrs. Cressler, leaning over
Laura's shoulder. "She is superb later on. Superb."

"I wish those men would stop talking," murmured Laura, searching the
darkness distressfully, for between the strains of the music she had
heard the words:

"--Clearing House balance of three thousand dollars."

Meanwhile the prima donna, rising to her feet, delivered herself of
a lengthy recitative, her chin upon her breast, her eyes looking out
from under her brows, an arm stretched out over the footlights. The
baritone entered, striding to the left of the footlights,
apostrophising the prima donna in a rage. She clasped her hands
imploringly, supplicating him to leave her, exclaiming from time to
time:

"Va via, va via--
Vel chieco per pieta."

Then all at once, while the orchestra blared, they fell into each
other's arms.

"Why do they do that?" murmured Aunt Wess' perplexed. "I thought the
gentleman with the beard didn't like her at all."

"Why, that's the duke, don't you see, Aunt Wess'?" said Laura trying
to explain. "And he forgives her. I don't know exactly. Look at your
libretto."

"--a conspiracy of the Bears ... seventy cents ... and naturally he
busted."

The mezzo-soprano, the confidante of the prima donna, entered, and a
trio developed that had but a mediocre success. At the end the
baritone abruptly drew his sword, and the prima donna fell to her
knees, chanting:

"Io tremo, ahime!"

"And now he's mad again," whispered Aunt Wess', consulting her
libretto, all at sea once more. "I can't understand. She says--the
opera book says she says, 'I tremble.' I don't see why."

"Look now," said Page, "here comes the tenor. Now they're going to
have it out."

The tenor, hatless, debouched suddenly upon the scene, and furious,
addressed himself to the baritone, leaning forward, his hands upon
his chest. Though the others sang in Italian, the tenor, a Parisian,
used the French book continually, and now villified the baritone,
crying out:

"O traitre infame
O lache et coupable"

"I don't see why he don't marry the young lady and be done with it,"
commented Aunt Wess'.

The act drew to its close. The prima donna went through her "great
scene," wherein her voice climbed to C in alt, holding the note so
long that Aunt Wess' became uneasy. As she finished, the house
rocked with applause, and the soprano, who had gone out supported by
her confidante, was recalled three times. A duel followed between
the baritone and tenor, and the latter, mortally wounded, fell into
the arms of his friends uttering broken, vehement notes. The
chorus--made up of the city watch and town's people--crowded in upon
the back of the stage. The soprano and her confidante returned. The
basso, a black-bearded, bull necked man, sombre, mysterious, parted
the chorus to right and left, and advanced to the footlights. The
contralto, dressed as a boy, appeared. The soprano took stage, and
abruptly the closing scene of the act developed.

The violins raged and wailed in unison, all the bows moving together
like parts of a well-regulated machine. The kettle-drums, marking
the cadences, rolled at exact intervals. The director beat time
furiously, as though dragging up the notes and chords with the end
of his baton, while the horns and cornets blared, the bass viols
growled, and the flageolets and piccolos lost themselves in an
amazing complication of liquid gurgles and modulated roulades.

On the stage every one was singing. The soprano in the centre,
vocalised in her highest register, bringing out the notes with
vigorous twists of her entire body, and tossing them off into the
air with sharp flirts of her head. On the right, the basso,
scowling, could be heard in the intervals of the music repeating

"Il perfido, l'ingrato"

while to the left of the soprano, the baritone intoned
indistinguishable, sonorous phrases, striking his breast and
pointing to the fallen tenor with his sword. At the extreme left of
the stage the contralto, in tights and plush doublet, turned to the
audience, extending her hands, or flinging back her arms. She raised
her eyebrows with each high note, and sunk her chin into her ruff
when her voice descended. At certain intervals her notes blended
with those of the soprano's while she sang:

"Addio, felicita del ciel!"

The tenor, raised upon one hand, his shoulders supported by his
friends, sustained the theme which the soprano led with the words:

"Je me meurs
Ah malheur
Ah je souffre
Mon ame s'envole."

The chorus formed a semi-circle just behind him. The women on one
side, the men on the other. They left much to be desired; apparently
scraped hastily together from heaven knew what sources, after the
manner of a management suddenly become economical. The women were
fat, elderly, and painfully homely; the men lean, osseous, and
distressed, in misfitting hose. But they had been conscientiously
drilled. They made all their gestures together, moved in masses
simultaneously, and, without ceasing, chanted over and over again:

"O terror, O blasfema."

The finale commenced. Everybody on the stage took a step forward,
beginning all over again upon a higher key. The soprano's voice
thrilled to the very chandelier. The orchestra redoubled its
efforts, the director beating time with hands, head, and body.

"Il perfido, l'ingrato"

thundered the basso.

"Ineffabil mistero,"

answered the baritone, striking his breast and pointing with his
sword; while all at once the soprano's voice, thrilling out again,
ran up an astonishing crescendo that evoked veritable gasps from all
parts of the audience, then jumped once more to her famous C in alt,
and held it long enough for the chorus to repeat

"O terror, O blasfema"

four times.

Then the director's baton descended with the violence of a blow.
There was a prolonged crash of harmony, a final enormous chord, to
which every voice and every instrument contributed. The singers
struck tableau attitudes, the tenor fell back with a last wail:

"Je me meurs,"

and the soprano fainted into the arms of her confidante. The curtain
fell.

The house roared with applause. The scene was recalled again and
again. The tenor, scrambling to his feet, joined hands with the
baritone, soprano, and other artists, and all bowed repeatedly. Then
the curtain fell for the last time, the lights of the great
chandelier clicked and blazed up, and from every quarter of the
house came the cries of the programme sellers:

"Opera books. Books of the opera. Words and music of the opera."

During this, the last entr'acte, Laura remained in the box with Mrs.
Cressler, Corthell, and Jadwin. The others went out to look down
upon the foyer from a certain balcony.

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